My Fair Gamine
by Muffinsweep11
Summary: Helping the poor was nothing strange to Enjolras. But having a street girl stay in his house and let him teach her? It was new. To Éponine, having to put five marbles in her mouth wasn't at all a common happening in her life.
1. Rue Le Peletier

**A/N: Holy shit, another fanfic before even finishing my others, but the lil' plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone when it tackled me. This is my first Les Mis fic; been a bit scared to ever write one before. I'm pretty sure someone has done this before, writing a fic based on My Fair Lady (I haven't seen that yet - shame on me) so sorry if I'm 'copying' someone's idea. The characters' backgrounds will probably be based off the book (which I haven't finished up till now - so oops if i go a bit OOC) and the happening based off the musical. Alright I'm gonna shut up now.**

* * *

It was just another night in the city of Paris; another cold night in Rue Le Peletier, only desponded by the rain that pelted down to the earth, driving people from the wet cobbled streets. Talks of the recent 1830 revolution lingered in the shadows of nooks and crannies, homeless children loitered wherever there was shelter, carts and carriages rolling their way through occasionally.

In the distance, bells of an unseen cathedral rung through the gloom, and soon the doors of Opéra Le Peletier opened. From it bustled men and women, hauling umbrellas as they streamed onto the streets, flagging coaches with much haste.

Amongst the waiting stood three young men.

"Now," commented the first. "Shall I be correct in saying that Mademoiselle Taglioni was absolutely splendid in this evening's premier of _La Sylphide_?"

"Highlighted further by her shortened skirt and sleeves," chuckled the second. "I'll say, don't see women's legs much with their buffoon skirts and balloon sleeves this century."

"It was indeed splendid, Marius," said the third to the first, ignoring the second. "Though I see no use to why of such frivolous entertainment; I'd rather be home reading my book."

"Oh, Enjorlas," sighed the second. "Give Pontmercy a chance, he's just trying to make up for his lashing tongue."

"First commenting about girl's limbs, now assuming wrongly my motives; My God, Grantaire, two hours without absinthe and you begin to spout nonsense," cut in the first, Marius. "Remember, I invited you both to the premier only to avoid bringing that blood-drinker of a grandfather along."

"Why not refuse the invitation in the first place, Marius?" grumbled the third, Enjorlas.

"For heaven's sake," replied Marius. "My aunt threatened to throw herself into the Seine should I refuse it. And besides, the arts never fail to lift the melancholy of all this republican dispute off your shoulders, does it not?"

"This 'republican dispute' happens to be one of higher purpose," argued Enjolras indignantly.

"I know," said Marius calmly. "Never really denied my agreement of it's purpose, did I?'

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. "I have no time for your fickle-mindedness and indecisiveness – it is time to decide who you are, Pontmercy – " Grantaire cut across him.

"Come now, let's not fight in front of all this Opera nobility," he spoke with a drawl in his tone. "Take it to the bar, shall we?"

He turned, only to crash into a girl, who let out a small shriek and released the basket within her hands, the contents spilling out and splattering into the mud caked street.

The girl recovered from the shock of the collision, and as Grantaire stepped away, Enjolras saw that her appearance was shabby, adorning a large brown coat two sizes too big for her small thin frame, wearing beneath only a chemise and a skirt, ragged from poverty. Her shaggy, black hair fell over her shoulders like a mop.

"_Merde_! Monsieur, 'at's me flowers yer made me knock o'er there!" she said, her voice hoarse and rough.

Enjolras looked at where the basket had landed, only to see a pile of mud.

"Flowers that we shall replace," said Enjolras quickly, upon seeing Grantaire's mouth open in rebuttal.

"Naw, _merci_ Monsieur, but these flowers can't be," she said, her face slipping into a frown. "Special carnations, yer see; blue ones, only found in me maman's gardens. 'Ard to be replaced, monsieur." She bent down, picking up the basket.

"Surely there must be a way to compensate your lost, then, mademoiselle," said Enjolras.

"Well..." the girl chewed her lip as she cleaned the mud in her basket with her skirt. "I is a flower girl; forty sous per flower, I was gonna sell 'em for..."

"We'll pay," said Enjolras, drawing out his wallet. He observed her bedraggled appearance, before taking out some coins and tossing them carelessly into the basket.

She stared at the coins. "Monsieur, surely - "

"No, mademoiselle," he said, raising a hand to stop her. "You'd need it more than I would. Perhaps you could spend some on language lessons; your language is revolting."

"We are revoltin' chillun livin' in revoltin' times," she said, propping the basket on her waist. "An' we'll be 'at way 'til the damn revoltin's done, don't ya think?"

Grantaire raised a brow. "Sweet Bonaparte, dress you in cloths of nobility and speak those words that a lass never ought to mention, you'd have Louis Philippe falling off his throne and yourself kicked out into the streets again. No wonder the poor never get anywhere with their horrible accents. The moment they talk they're despised!"

"A point indeed," said Marius. "It's most certainly well told that one could determine one's origins by the accent. Say, cover up the accent, dress them in decent clothes; would the poor not look like the rich?"

The girl turned scarlet, her eyes flashing with vehemence. "Sure, suh, my accent's 'orrible, but we ain't gonna have no fine clothes anytime soon, so I can assure yer, I ain't gonna get kicked outta no high society soon."

"Grantaire and Marius are not wrong, however," said Enjolras. "The accent would decide a person's respectability, wouldn't it? Suppose," he turned to the girl, "just say I change your accent, help you refine your speech. I must admit, with such passionate, steadfast thoughts like yours, you'd be a great spokesperson."

"I'd be a lass when Wellington stops wearing 'is anal hat," said the girl flatly.

"You'd mingle with the high society, to show the people what the poor are capable off," said Enjolras, ignoring her dirty comment. "That's my offer."

The flower girl opened her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted as a coach finally pulled up, after Marius' long efforts to flag one.

Grantaire gave a cheer, and scrambled into shelter from the pouring rain. Enjolras looked back at the girl, and taking a piece of paper from his coat pocket, he scrawled onto it hurriedly.

"If you ever agree," he said, passing the slip to her. "Enjolras, at your service."

"And Marius Pontmercy," said Marius from behind, tipping his hat as he held the door of the coach open. "If you would be so kind to tell us your name, mademoiselle."

"Oh, I'm no mademoiselle, monsieur," she said, chuckling nervously. "Éponine Jondrette, if you must know."

"Enjolras! Marius!" yelled Grantaire from the coach. "I shall leave you two behind if you don't get in here this minute!" Marius obliged, and Éponine smiled up at Enjolras.

"I suppose your ass 'as elsewhere to be. Gidday, messieurs!" she said, before ducking into the crowd, though Enjolras never lost her tousled, black hair amongst the bonnets and top hats.

He climbed back into the carriage.

"Someone's got a rendezvous, eh?" smirked Grantaire, as the couch lurched forwards. "Never thought the high and mighty marble man would fall for a street urchin! I am indeed agog!"

"She is merely an experiment," said Enjolras nonchalantly. "A test of the poor's potential. She will be living proof that the poor had just as right to France as the rich, that they are no dirtier than the rich and twisted are clean. That they should have the same rights, the same freedom, as one would have with wealth. Bonaparte saw that, but his time is passed, and France is slipping back into monarchism, into _Ancien Régime, _someone needs to see the political freedom the poor deserves as she will too refresh the fire within me, to help me remember the point of my radicalism."

He looked back at the arches of the Opéra, spotting Éponine dragged out of the crowd by a younger girl with the same, tangled, messy hair. The smaller girl said something, only to get a punch on the arm from the Jondrette girl. Standing amongst the high society, with the crinolines and tailcoats surrounding them, their tattered chemises stuck out like a sore tongue.

"Hopefully," he added softly.

* * *

"Ow! 'Ponine, what the 'ell was 'at for?"

"For blurtin' nonsense, 'Zelma!" chided Éponine. "Monsieur Enjolras ain't got no fancy o' me, and 'at's 'at."

"C'mon, 'ponine, shoulda at least accepted 'is offer," whined Azelma, her younger sister. She lowered her voice and dragged Éponine into a dark deserted alleyway. "It'd make things easier for da' to rob it if yer were in it."

"Da' already got the money 'e wanted," hissed Éponine, picking the coins from her basket. "Two whole napoléons for dumpin' a pile o' mud on the street; hafta admit, for a nobleman, Monsieur Enjolras ain't too smart."

"Which means yer can con 'im further if yer go to 'is 'ouse!" said Azelma, her eyes lighting up with malevolent mischief. "C'mon, 'ponine, imagine 'ow the rich live...practically paradise, I'da say!"

Éponine found a strand of her straggly damp hair, and twirled it distractedly, contemplating the idea. She reached into the basket, fishing out the slip of paper that held Enjolras' address.

"'Zelma?" she asked finally. "Remember 'ow I told yer I didn't accept the offer?"

"Yea...?" said Azelma slowly, the side of her mouth tugging into a mischievous smirk.

Éponine's face now couldn't help but mirror her sister's. Her grimy fingers closed around the paper.

"Well, never told 'im I won't come, I didn'..."

* * *

Enjolras awoke the next morning to incessant rapping on his bedroom door.

"Monsieur, forgive me for rousing your sleep, but there is a man who requests your presence."

Enjolras groaned as he propped himself against his elbows. "Beg his pardon, tell him to return later, " he said, not opening his eyes. "What time is it now anyways, six?"

"Ten o' clock, to be precise, monsieur. And if I may dare to say, I doubt the man would be easily negotiable with."

"Why so?" asked Enjolras, his eyes opening slowly, light filling his world.

"He does reek of drink..."

Now Enjolras was fully awake.

He burst out of his bedroom, much to the poor assistant's surprise, fleeing down the staircase into the drawing room. Sure enough, he found a pair of feet sticking out from behind the polyester couch.

"This better be important, Grantaire," said Enjolras.

"No, actually it isn't," the man drawled, sitting up. "Just a request to stay here in your house."

Enjolras sighed. "Grantaire, I'm not having any girls over anytime soon – "

"How 'bout mademoiselle_ le fille de fleur_?"

Enjolras folded his arms. "I doubt Mademoiselle Jondrette would've accepted my offer, seeing her prudent opinions to stick to her current demeanor. Besides, she was so horrible dirty and low, there's no possible way I could help her, could I?"

In that moment, a knock drew attention to the servant by the door. "Monsieur," she said. "There is a woman with a ghastly accent and clothing that wants to meet you."

From the corner of his eye, Enjolras caught Grantaire smirking.

"Bring her into the drawing room then," he said, keeping his voice level.

A few minutes later, there was some shuffling to be heard in the front hall, before Éponine entered, in the same dirty, mud-splattered chemise, and barefooted.

"Considered yer offer, I did," she said quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the floor. "Guessed it would be 'elpful for me application for a florist."

Enjolras didn't speak for a while. He'd been prepared for her to refuse the offer, but for her to accept it...

Always be prepared for the unexpected. So he had broken his mantra, all because a street urchin surprised him.

He felt Grantaire's expectant gaze on him. "I'll give you lessons," he said finally. "But you must pay."

Éponine's mouth dropped open. "An' with what, monsieur, my undergarments?"

"With the money I gave you yesterday," replied Enjolras calmly. "I gave you the money to pay for language lessons, and now you must."

Éponine's face turned red once more. "Aww dang, monsieur," she said. "My da's taken 'em coins to drink." It was true; Thenardiér had searched her clean of money when she had returned late last night.

"Then you will receive no lessons from me, Mademoiselle Jondrette," said Enjolras coolly, turning away. "I cannot help you."

"But I can," came a voice from behind. Grantaire rose from the couch, a bottle of absinthe swinging at his side.

"You have the money?" asked Enjolras skeptically.

"Nope, but maybe I'll get some outta Marius' poor aunt," he said. "So, what do you say, mademoiselle, I'll pay for your lessons."

"Aww," crooned Eponine, "Least 'e ain't 'eartless."

The rest of the day, Grantaire had some sort of a triumphant smirk on his face.

* * *

**A/N: And Happy New Year! Well, for me and all those who are on the same island, I suppose. Gah, time zones. Oh well, I shall go write my new year's revolu - ahem, _resolution_ now :]**


	2. The sobriety of her youth

**A/N (22/2/14): Omg watching the musical My Fair Lady tonight! So excited :D Well ok I kinda tweaked a bit of the last chapter, so if you get lost during this chapter, you probably haven't read the (slightly) edited version. And I am halfway through the book Les Mis! Yay!**

**Deep Forest Green: I do agree they are a little OOC, and that Enjolras would find no use to do up Eponine, but I do have another role for Marius ;]**

* * *

When Éponine finally emerged from the manor after three hours, Azelma was waiting for her in the shadows of a nearby alley.

"So?" the younger girl asked, her eyes burning with excitement. "Did he?"

"Lessons suck," said Éponine simply.

"So yer did manage to convince M. Enjorlas, yer did!" said Azelma, jumping up and down on the spot.

"Enjolras," corrected Éponine. "An' don't breath a word to da'," she added.

"But why?" asked Azelma. "He can rob the place now that yer in it!"

"Not yet. I-I does want t-to learn to speak properly," confessed Éponine. "I mean, I could getta job, earn me some 'onest money."

"No!" gasped Azelma. "Yer wouldn't waste yer mind on these stupid thin's, would ya? Yer wanna get close to M. Enjorlas, yer do - "

"Shush 'at mouth!" hissed Éponine suddenly, swiping a hand over her sister's mouth and pulling her back into the shadows.

Speak of the devil - Enjolras was at the entrance of the alleyway. His head was cocked to a side, as if listening out for something. She felt Azelma's warm breath against her palm, her own hitched in her throat as the man scanned his surroundings. Then he shook his head, carrying on past the alley.

Éponine released her hold on the smaller girl. "'Zelma, I gots no fancy on M. Enjolras!" She proclaimed airily. "Point is, I'm gonna rob the place myself once i get enough of 'is trust. Might even convince 'im to tike me in!"

"Yer wouldn't!" said Azelma. "Da' would kill ya if 'e finds out yer've been keepin' a 'ouse like this from 'im!"

"'E'll get 'imself killed, 'e will, if 'e robs a 'ouse like 'at! M. Enjolras's gotta 'eck of a 'ousehold, one small creak o' a floorboard an' someone'll surely 'ear! Not forgettin' M. Grantaire - 'e staiys up late an' walks around carryin' rum where'ver he can geddit!" She paused, before adding with a hint of envy, "The lucky guy."

"So what ya plans to - " Azelma was cut off once more as Éponine shushed her, this time with a finger.

Grantaire was at the entrance now, his tousled hair falling over his hazy eyes as he looked around.

"Could've sworn I heard that lil' gal's voice," he muttered, his voice slurring from alcohol. Then, with random mannerism, he burst into an old Spanish lullaby.

"_Soy de Badajoz,_

_Amor me llama."_

Éponine bit her lip hard to prevent her laughter from escaping. She could feel Azelma's body begin to tremble as well and she knew her sister, too, recognized the song. It was something their father had picked up from Spanish customers at the Thenardier's tavern back in Montfermeil, something he'd used to sing to them when his spirits were high, and explain later without consideration of the young girls' innocence. It may have been a lovely song should a young dashing man sing it to his love, but when an ugly man such as Grantaire should sing it in his croaking voice...

_"Toda mi alma_

_Es en mi ojos_

_Porque enseñas_

_A tus piernas."_

Éponine couldn't take it anymore – she burst into uncontrollable giggles. Grantaire's head whipped around, and in that same second the sisters darted down the alleyway with the silence of cats leaping through the night.

* * *

Thendardier was fuming.

"An' where've yer been, hussy?" he demanded just as Éponine and Azelma entered their tiny room in the Gorbeau house.

She paled. "Nowhere, suh, not anywhere but around the streets."

"Doin' nothin'!" roared Thenardier. "'Aven't seen yer the whole day an' yer dare come 'ome with not a single sou! Yer useless girl!" There was a sickening smack as his palm met her cheek.

Éponine shied away into the corner, nursing her wounded cheek, beginning to regret spending all day at Enjolras' manor and letting him tutor her in her vowels.

"Aww, da', yer don't hafta be so 'ard on 'er!" protested Azelma, running to interfere. "She just ain't as lucky today." Their eyes met, letting their secret agreement replay in her mind.

"Shut up, yer slut," snapped Thenardier at Azelma, who broke eye contact and scurried to a corner. "None of yer business. Yer no better either."

Thenardier turned back on Éponine, his eyes flashing with raw fury. "Yer come back penniless tomorrow, yer 'omeless too!"

He slapped her again, and kicked her into the corner. Éponine curled up in the shadows, and spent those hours with silent tears. How fast could her weak soul be tampered with, changed from happy and carefree to sad and miserable in a matter of seconds and a single word uttered by her father.

_Useless._

Just you wait, father, just you wait.

* * *

"Good morning, Mlle. Jondrette, are you quite alright?"

"Fine, just fine, monsieur."

"Is that a bruise I see?"

"No, suh, just a bit o' grime."

"Then you should wash it off."

"Can't, suh, it's stuck."

"You don't scrub hard enough."

"I don't scrub at all, suh!" snapped Éponine. "Think we poor got enough money to 'ave showers like yer lot? I barely managed to washed me hands an' feet before I came, I did."

Enjolras was slightly taken aback by her short temper this morning. He was pretty convinced that mark on her cheek was a bruise, but if she wanted to keep it personal, it was none of his business.

"Alright," he said, "Let's leave that at that and continue, shall we? Today we practice vowels."

"Again?"

"Yes, again," said Enjolras firmly. "You hardly got it right the last time round. Now – A, E, I, O, U."

"Ahyee, e, iyee, ow, you," said Éponine.

"A, E, I, O, U."

"Ahyee, e, iyee, ow, you," she repeated, her brow furrowing in concentration.

Enjolras sighed. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

"For the last time – the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain."

"The rine in spine staiys minely on the pline."

"Mademoiselle, it's the r_aaa_in i – Grantaire! I thought I'd reminded you to take those shoes off before you step into the house!"

Éponine looked up from the piece of paper from which she'd been reciting for so long, seeing Grantaire clump into the drawing room with his boots still on.

"Afternoon, monsieur!" she greeted happily, beaming at her benefactor. She turned back to Enjolras. "'e stays 'ere? Yer two lovers?"

"What? No! " Enjolras sat bolt upright in his chair, an expression of shocked disbelief taking over his features. "Mademoiselle Jondrette, your gutter environment has indeed given you rather misleading impressions! Grantaire only stays here because I agreed to let him after an hour of pestering at around 1:00am!"

"Ah..."

"Say, is that a blue-black I see there?" asked Grantaire, reaching out to touch Éponine's cheek. The girl flinched away.

"No, suh!" she said hurriedly. "Only a patch o' dirt, 'at's all it is!"

"Then clean it!"

"I can't!"

"Why?"

"'cause I can't!" said Éponine, heat rising to her cheeks.

"Because you were hit!" insisted Grantaire indignantly.

"I wasn't!"

"Evidently you were."

"Was not!"

"Now stop this bickering for once, will you?" cried Enjolras, pushing the pair apart, who both, in the heat of their argument, had been marching up to each other. "Arguing is not the solution to our problem! The problem is that Mlle. Jondrette is being abused, and the solution is that she stay here, under my care!"

It took him five full seconds of shocked silence to realize what he had just suggested.

Éponine turned slowly to face him, her eyes wide with wonder. "You...you would...?"

"You're being abused at home, Mlle. Jondrette," stated Grantaire, understanding almost immediately Enjolras' spontaneous motive. "Under mine and Enjolras' care, you will not be harmed."

Éponine did not speak for a moment. Enjolras found himself hoping that she would deny the offer. A gamine in his house was something his parents would not want to see when they returned from their business trip to Frankfort.

But fate decided to be cruel to him.

"Are yer...are yer serious?" she asked. "Would ya really tike me in?"

This time Enjolras was speechless. Taking her in would mean having to care for her full time, it would mean shorter visits to the Café Musain, shorter time building the fire within the people of France.

He glanced at Éponine's face, the wound on her cheek seemingly boring into him. Would he really kick out a street girl in need, though? What would the poor think of their leader then? Eponine had already implied him heartless the other day. What would he plummet to from there?

"Tell me, what do you sleep on, Mlle. Jondrette?" he asked, after a moment.

"On the floor, o' course!" she exclaimed, as if it were the most common thing on earth. "Managed to get the softest spot, I did," she added proudly.

Enjolras took a deep breath. "You can stay, then," he said finally, not believing himself. Compromising his goal for a street urchin? Enjolras felt he barely knew himself anymore.

He regretted having that morning tea now.

* * *

Enjolras learnt something at the end of the day: never first bring a street girl into a room and announce it's hers to own.

He could barely get Éponine's attention after doing so. She would not stay still, running here and there with the speed of a rubber ball, yelling things like "I 'ave my own bed, my own pillow, my own sheets!" or "Well, looka yonder, there's more than one chair and window, there is, an' they ain't broken!" and stretching out her long lanky arms and exclaiming, "Look! I'm not touching walls!" Even the servants could only stand at a side, staring slightly agape at the girl that ricocheted from one end of the room to another.

"Get her cleaned up and dressed decently," ordered Enjolras, observing Éponine, who was now bouncing excitedly on the bed. He turned to Grantaire, who was seated in an armchair. "Now that she's staying here, might as well look as if she came from her, shouldn't she? After all, I wouldn't want my parents to blast my ear drums when they find a girl in rags in their manor."

"I have never heard your mother scream and I never want to," agreed Grantaire. He looked to where the maidservants were now dragging the street girl out of the room. "Do tell me, how exactly are you going to teach this young mademoiselle to speak? You don't exactly have a degree in language."

"But I study law, and preach republicanism all the time," reminded Enjolras. "Speech is my forte."

"Very well," said Grantaire, satisfied, propping his feet on the footrest. "Leave it to you to turn the French republic to a immense human republic, to turn a gamine into a lady." He popped a stick of tobacco into his mouth and began to chew it.

"Oh, no way ya'll makin' me go into this weird white bowl, no way!" came a shout. "Looks dangerous, I tell ya, got steam comin' out! Gonna burn me, I'da reckon."

"Mademoiselle, it is called a bathtub, and you must unclothe and get in, if I am to bathe you!" they heard the maidservant reply.

"Naw, yer don't touch me mountains and valley, no yer don't!"

"My dear, you hardly have any!"

"Garn!" Following Éponine's shout of refusal, there was much commotion in the bathroom, and yet Enjolras did not budge from the doorway.

"Not going to go after your darling?" asked Grantaire, an edge of tease in his voice.

Enjolras shot the man a glare. "Grantaire, you ought to know me well enough to realize that I will die a bachelor, that I will not let any lady enter my life. Mlle. Jondrette shall be off and back to her own life in a matter of months after she proves her worth, and everything shall go back to normal, and I shall remain loyal to my mistress, Patria." He exited the room and descended the stairs into the living room, Grantaire following suit. There he studied his books silently, until Grantaire's tobacco had long disintegrated in his mouth and the rather flustered maidservant finally announced that Éponine was ready.

When Enjolras went to see her, he could hardly recognize the street girl. Her face had been washed clean, as had her arms, revealing her fair, pale skin that was somewhat still smooth with youth, save the bruises on her cheeks. Her hair was revealed to be a deep shade of brown, with natural waves that fell over her shoulders. The maids had fitted her into a corset, and it only emphasized the tiny waist she had.

Grantaire's eyebrows had crept up his forehead at the sight of the woman. "Now, who is this lassie who stands before me like the light of all heaven?"

Éponine blatantly ignored him. "Can't breathe, I'll tell ya that!" she gasped instead, her arms sticking out at her sides. "An' stupid cage beneath me skirt's makin' it impossible for me sit!"

"The corset helps to maintain your posture as a lady, Mademoiselle Jondrette," said Enjolras patiently. "The 'cage', a crinoline, is a new invention that shall allow your skirt to hold its shape."

Éponine scoffed. "Guess I won't be able to jump off the top of the Arc de Triomphe no more –ain't gonna happen with this parachute."

In the corner, Grantaire sniggered.

Enjolras ignored the drunk once more. "You will have to learn to move around in the corset and crinoline if you are to be a lady. Now, your vowels again: A, E, I, O, U."

Not a single word of her change in appearance. Éponine had to admit she thought herself pretty after her transformation – for once, she didn't feel like dirt on the Parisian streets. After so many years of being thick-skinned, she finally let herself care about her appearance, and so she didn't know if she should feel disappointed that Enjolras had given no opinion.

Nonetheless, she obeyed. "Ahyee, e, ihyee, ow, you," she went again. "Been sayin' 'em the whole day an' I won't say 'em no more!"

"You will say your vowels till you can pronounce them properly. Unless, of course, you want to land on the streets again."

"No!" cried Éponine, a little too hurriedly. She cleared her throat. "I'll be a good girl, I will."

Enjolras nodded. "That's excellent. I'll check on you later. You've got 48 hours."

Two days later, Enjolras had finished attending his daily gatherings with _Les Amis de l'ABC_, arranged the campaigns, before he returned late in the night. Too tired to light a lamp, he dragged himself up the stairs blindly, groping in the dark. He stumbled his way down the passageway, when something joggled behind him. He started, and upon swiveling around to face the shaking doorknob, he realized it was the door to Éponine's bedroom.

He squinted through the darkness. Someone began to pound on the door. Slowly, he inched across the floor to the room, only to step, rather unfortunately, on a loose floorboard. The creak resounded through the manor, and he winced, his heart banging against his chest.

He glanced at the door, which no longer rattled. The deserted corridor was as silent as a tomb. Whoever had been trying to open the door had heard him. He approached it nevertheless, turning the doorknob, and was surprised to find it locked from the outside. Whoever had locked it? Why was it locked?

"Mlle. Jondrette, do you slumber?" he whispered, unlocking the door with his skeleton key and entering quietly. The room was dark, with the moonlight growing dim as clouds shifted, but Enjolras could still tell there was something slightly off. Could it be that faint rancid smell?

However, he made it no further than a step, before a pair of hands grabbed him strongly by the shoulders and shoved him roughly against the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

"You!" he heard the voice shout, which he recognized to be Eponine's. What was she doing? "Yer want me dead, don't yer?"

"Mamselle!" cried Enjolras. "What is the matter with you?"

Suddenly he was thrown upon her bed – for someone so small, she was surprisingly strong, either so or he was just in complete utter shock over Éponine's sudden change in attitude. He felt Éponine's body crash upon his and he cried out in shock.

"Éponine! End this madness!" He threw her off him, upon the floor, and, before she could recover, he pinned her to the ground.

"Yer tryin' to kill me, yer are!" she snarled. As the moonlight streamed in from the window, Enjolras caught the wild craving in her eyes, and he recognized it – he'd seen the same crazed look before.

"My God, you are sobered up, aren't you?"

Éponine stiffened, and then her whole body relaxed, her head falling back onto the floor. Her gaze grew distant and unfocused.

"_'Ere, wotcher do with all 'em books...I could've been a student too!" _she sang, dazed. "_Don't judge a girl on 'ow she looks, I know a lot of things I do..._I need my brandy, I tell ya!" she screamed suddenly, thrashing about in Enjolras' hold. "Two days without it! Two bleedin' days locked in this dried out hellhole!"

"Enj, is everything alright?" came a voice, and Enjolras looked up, finding Grantaire at the doorway carrying a lamp, his eyes half-closed with sleepiness.

Enjolras stared down at the girl, who had gone limp again, now donning a look of confusion on her face.

"You're really ugly, you know," she commented to Grantaire, and burst into giggles.

Enjolras stared back up at the man.

"R, I think I just found you a new drinking partner."

* * *

**A/N: Anyone who doesn't know, the Spanish song that Grantaire sings is the same song Tholomyès sings in the book. In english: '****_I come from Badajoz. Love calls to me. All my soul is in my eyes because you are showing your legs.'_**


End file.
